On Tour
by poeticgrace
Summary: Reflections from the road. Angela/Jordan, two parts, COMPLETE.
1. Jordan

Red hair falling across green eyes – that's what he thinks about on nights like these. The bus is quiet, the bunk is small. He would give anything to be curled up in the front seat of his prized red car, arm around his prized girl, staring up at a magnificent display of stars in the night sky. Instead, he has to be content with a handful of plastic glow-in-the-dark stickers stuck haphazardly to the metal frame of the bunk ahead. It isn't much, but you take what you can get on the road. It gets lonely a lot.

He hasn't seen her in seven years, not since her high school graduation and he won a small recording contract in the Battle of the Bands contest in the city. She still doesn't know that he showed up that day, watching from the hood of his car in the parking lot across from the football field. He knows that she looked for him in the stands, getting up on her tiptoes to search the rows of people for his bright blue eyes and too-long brown hair. He doesn't know if she cried when she couldn't find him. He didn't want to know.

His band is big these days, doing better than he could have ever imagined back in high school. He's seen six continents, dozens of countries, more cities than he could ever count. From Bangkok to Paris, New York to Sydney, legions of adoring fans know his name, his birthday, his inspirations and every word to every song. But they don't know him, not really. He doesn't think that anyone does most days, at least not anymore. He only has a couple people around him from the old days. Tino is still there, his best friend and brother to the end. He's the only one who he can talk about her with; he's the only one who understands.

There are whole albums out there about her now, an entire discography dedicated to her careful smile and penetrating gaze. He has stacks and stacks of notebooks stashed at his studio, at his apartment, in the bus full of material about her. She inspires him now, years after he quit really knowing her. There is no shortage of words that he could write in her honor. She is his muse and he often wonders if she even knows it. She probably still thinks that damn song is about his stupid car. He never bothered to tell her the truth.

He calls New York home these days, though he's never there for more than a few weeks at a time. It's mostly so that he can record or sleep for a few days between tours or see Shane when he comes to visit with his two little girls. His oversized apartment is mostly empty, decorated by some middle-aged woman he never bothered to meet. He sent a check, she sent furniture – it was the perfect kind of relationship for him. He keeps a photograph of her in his bedside table. It's the only finite relic in his life that proves she exists. It's only thing he let himself hold onto.

Sometimes he lets himself think about how she ended up. He wonders where she went to college and what she is doing for a living and where she calls home and who she lives there with. He isn't sure if he wants to know if she found love, a marriage, children and a home. He prefers to think of her more often as he knew her, so hopeful and full of adoration for him. There's a lot to be said about being adored.

But most of the time, he tries to pretend that Angela doesn't exist. The only thing that he knows about her is that she majored in art history, a rare fact that Rayanne let slip once when she came to visit them on tour. Tino and her still mess around sometimes, but the wayward blonde is careful to never mention Angela when he's around. He's not sure if it's for his sake or hers, but he appreciates it nonetheless. The less he knows, the better off they all are. He's always one plane ride away from trying to win her back, and everyone knows that has the potential to cause her world to explode.

She did write to him once, a quick postcard jotted down with a London postmark. He read it at least six times the day he picked it up at his old post office box. It was right before he moved the last of his stuff permanently out of storage and up to New York. He never knew if she knew where he ended up, just that he never received another word from her. Her words seemed happy, no longer the moody teenager but a genuinely content young woman. It was a delicate balance that he knew he could still upset. It was then that he decided not to be selfish anymore. It was then that he made himself at least pretend to let her go.

He turns over and stares at the wall for a moment before shifting back onto his back and gazing up at those stupid stars. He can feel the wheels rolling beneath him, can hear the gentle snore of his new bass player a few bunks down and can smell the stale air that goes with being in a bus for twelve hours. He misses sleeping in a real bed and eating real food cooked in a real kitchen and any real sense of a real routine. He loves touring, loves music, loves his fans. He doesn't take a minute of it for granted and truly appreciates all the opportunities he's been given.

That doesn't mean, however, that it's all amazing. It's lonely and draining. He lost his privacy so long ago, first to the confines of traveling with guys and then to his loyal fandom and then to the prying eyes of the press. His sense of normalcy is gone, replaced by waking up every day in a different city and constantly being told what state or country he's even in. The only thing he drinks more than Pepto is coffee, and that's only to give himself a break from the thick pink liquid. A pair of nagging ulcers have taken up permanent residence in the pit of his stomach, and his throat doctor is constantly threatening he'll lose his voice if he doesn't rest it soon. The only thing he gets him through his the vacation he has planned in Bora Bora for the end of the year and the newly finished notebook begging to be recorded come November.

Until then, Jordan will stare at the plastic stars on the road and her photograph at home in New York. He will sing the same songs that make her real to him every night and pretend that the statuesque blonde front row center is a petite redhead. He will sign autographs after shows before climbing onto the bus and repeat the whole sad process the next day because this is his life now. He'll do all this and he'll think of her – his beautiful star with green eyes hidden by red hair.


	2. Angela

Calloused fingers on guitar strings and eyes deeper than an abyss – those are the memories that she carries with her. The town car is warm and lush, but it's too still and too quiet to be of any real comfort to her. She would give anything to be back home sitting on the edge of the counter in her parents' kitchen, him poised between her legs, kissing him slowly while her mother pretends to be sleep a floor above them. Instead, she ignores the phone buzzing from her leather satchel and watches a field of sunflowers pass by in a blur. It's pretty enough, but when you live your life flying from city to city, seeing real nature makes it even more beautiful.

Sometime she tries to count the number of months since she's seen him, a few days before that warm June afternoon when he never showed. She looked for him before the ceremony, scanning the crowd in hopes that he actually showed up for her at least this once. She cried in Sharon's car afterward on the way to the party. She doesn't know what happened to him that day. She doesn't want to care enough to ever find out.

Her writing career has really taken off, her own life providing far too much material for inspiration than she would like. She has published two well-received novels, putting her in literary circles most people would kill for. Thousands of people follow her daily exploits with a column in the _Times_ and a few million care enough to look up her blog online. But they don't know the real story, the parts that she chooses not to share. She keeps them for herself or at least for another book, which ever she decides to come to terms with first. The only person who gets to hear all those stories now is Ricki, her one true confidant among the storm. He's the only one who can really understand what it's like; he's the only one who really knew the old her.

Her entire career has been about him. He is the muse for her male protagonist, her way of making him into the man she wishes he could be. She has pages upon pages of manuscripts that rights all his wrongs, lining her bookshelves and her portfolio alike. He inspires her even now, his songs often providing the perfect soundtrack while she writes in her sunroom just off the coast of Maine. The only song she can't bear to hear his first single, that stupid track about his stupid car. She never really liked that one anyway.

She's been in Maine for two years now, moving hear shortly after college so that she could write full time without the hustle and bustle of Boston. She loves coming here after her latest book tour, where Danielle can come visit on weekends away from college and Ricki relaxes when his career as a stylist gives him a few days off. It's full of cozy throw blankets and plush pillows and overstuffed arm chairs. She always has the windows open when the weather allows so that she can enjoy the fresh sea air. She keeps a few pictures from high school in the spare bedroom, but there is one she keeps pressed in the back of her journal. That's the place where she really writes about him, the place where she really lets herself remember.

She doesn't really have to wonder what happened to him. It's always splashed across the pages of music magazines. She rarely lets herself look at them, preferring not to know if he is dating a model or an actress. She likes to think of him as he was when they were together, soulful and complicated and damaged but in the best way possible. He was never perfect. There's a lot to be said for imperfection.

However, usually, she saves all that revisiting for her writing because that's where she can make it all okay again. Rayanne mentions him sometimes when she visits Tino in whatever city the band is in that week. She always tells Angela that he's doing good. Her old friend is their one connection left in all the world except for the one that is forever tied from his heart to hers. She always one phone call away from throwing in the towel on being strong, but she knows she couldn't stand to lose him all over again. She wasn't that strong yet, if she ever would be again.

The only time she has tried to contact him is the single postcard she spent two hours writing during her sophomore year abroad in the UK. She gave him her forwarding address in vain hope that he would reach out to her, but he never said a word. She doesn't know where he landed permanently, probably either New York or LA. That was when she lost hope in a future that they would never have. She needed to be selfish for once and put herself first. She needed to say goodbye and let him leave.

She shifts back in the seat and glances up toward her driver before looking back out the window. She can smell his warm coffee, can hear the soft piano music playing from the car speakers and can feel the recycled air conditioning currently keeping her cool on a seasonable autumn afternoon. She misses her writing room and her safe routine and the pleasures of her simple life at home. She loves writing, loves meeting the people who reads her books, love the whole world of publishing. She doesn't take any of it for granted because she knows it can slip through her fingers any minute. She appreciates it all.

But still, the life of a touring writer can be difficult. She has missed important family moments because of deadlines. She opens herself up to criticism and constantly having to defend how she feels. The reviews can be harsh and the interviews long. Touring months can feel unending, sending her from one coast to the other and then back again. She lives off hotel coffee and sleeping pills, not exactly the healthiest of combinations. She is forever jetlagged and her doctor worries that she is dehydrated and exhausted. The only thing that gets her through is spending the winter in St. Barts working on her next book and the outline she has in mind for its plot.

Until then, Angela will watch the world pass her by from behind the glass and jot stray notes on cocktail napkins until she can get to her laptop again. She'll autograph books and smile for pictures and listen to some random stranger tell her about their writing aspirations in an airport lounge so that she can fly to the next city to do it all over again. She'll do this and she will think of him, with his still-calloused hands plucking those same old metal guitar strings.

_**Fin.**_


End file.
